


Monster

by Meowmix76



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Chair Bondage, Dean generally goes off the reservation, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kidnapping, M/M, Mark of Cain, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-23
Packaged: 2018-03-31 17:06:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3986035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meowmix76/pseuds/Meowmix76
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is newly human again, though still bearing the Mark of Cain. An old ghost from his past is resurrected by Rowena and turns him inside out. Will the rest of Team Free Will (I consider Crowley an honorary member) be able to save him before he's too far gone? Can anyone glue Dean back together again? Or will he be doomed to be the monster that he was in Hell? (Tags and characters/etc will be updated as the fic progresses; explicit rating is for later chapters and does not, as yet, apply.) [CURRENTLY NOT BEING UPDATED: ORIGINAL AUTHOR HAS NO ACCESS TO INTERNET FOR INDETERMINATE TIME]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Resurrection

~Prologue

Rowena smiled to herself as she finished the preparations for her spell, ignoring the woman bound to the table across the room. She needed information, and the girl was proving to be beyond her abilities to interrogate - at least in any sort of time frame in which she could reasonably expect the Winchesters -not- to show up, once they got wind of the multiple abductions lately. Well, not to worry; every good witch had a few tricks up her sleeve. She casts the spell, reciting the incantation, and she smiles again when, after a moment, the lights in the room flicker and the ground quakes a bit, stepping quickly outside of the devil's trap on the floor, a man appearing within it before too much longer, his confusion clear as his blue eyes looked himself over and he flexed his hands as if to convince himself they were attached.

"Hello there, deary; welcome back to the land of the living." She greets him pleasantly, her smile remaining in spite of the rather menacing way with which he regarded her when he turned, 

"Who are you? Why - and how - am I here?"

"My name's Rowena, and it was my spell that went about bringing ye back. As to the why? Well, that girl over there has some information I'm in need of hearing, but she's not too inclined to spit it out. It's smarter for me to find someone who can get the job done quickly, -before- the Winchesters manage to track her, and subsequently, me, down." The man's eyes narrow then as he moves closer to the edge of the trap, 

"Winchesters? They're still alive?" 

"Oh, of course they are, deary, not a lot of things can keep them dead permanently, now, is there? When it comes to ah, interrogation, though, no one name was spoken more than yours. So, what do you say? I scratch out this trap, you get me my information, and you're free to do whatever it is that floats your boat?" He studied her for a minute before letting his gaze drift to the woman on the table, and the various instruments on the tables around her, a dark glint entering his eyes, and he gives a nod, 

"I'd say you have yourself a deal, Rowena." Rowena smiles, going about letting him out of the devil's trap, watching him prowl across the room as she clasps her hands in front of herself. This time, she'd get what she needed, she was sure of it. How long it would take? Well, that she didn't know, but it didn't matter; she'd killed several to get to this point, and it wasn't the time to back out if it took a little longer than she wanted.

\----------

"Are you sure you're up for this, Dean?" Sam asked from the passenger seat of the Impala, regarding his brother with worry, 

"Yeah, yeah I'm good, man. I just, wanna work, yanno?" He replies, glancing briefly at the Mark of Cain on his arm, "I'm back to being me. I wanna celebrate, and my way of doing that right now is putting one in the win column for us." 

Sam nods, frowning a little, but he doesn't contest the statement, "Alright, if things start getting....weird.."

"I'll tell you. It's been what, a month now and we only worked two or three cases? My biggest problem is being bored."

"Yeah well, I thought you could use the break..."

"Why, because I popped that shifter a few too many times? I wanted to make sure the bitch was dead."

"I get that, it was just weird, that's all." 

Dean rolls his eyes a bit, sighing, "So, what're we lookin at with this job?" He questions after a moment or two of silence, changing the subject, Sam frowning a little but following his lead,

"We've got six people that went missing, five turned up dead. Their bodies were heavily mutilated, but I couldn't access the coroner's report to make sure they had all their pieces."

"What're you thinkin? Werewolf?" 

"No, not with this sort of mutilation - werewolves usually only crack open the chest. Maybe a witch?"

"A witch? Why would a witch do that?"

"There are a lot of organs that get used in spell work; if any of them are missing we'll have something to go on."

"If they're not?"

"We'll take it from there. It could just be a person doing it, serial killer or something, but it smells fishy to me." 

"We'll know for sure when we get there. What do we do if it -is- just some crazy bastard?"

"Let the real authorities handle it?" Dean nods,

"Wonder what happened to the sixth person?"

"I donno; maybe she's still alive. If she is, hopefully we can find her before she turns up like the rest."

"If those bodies are as mutilated as you say, she may not thank us for that." 

 

The next day, the Winchesters walk into the police station, flashing their FBI badges before they're brought to speak with the chief of police, 

"Agents, I've gotta tell you, this one's really giving us the run-around. There's no connection between the victims that we can find, no motive that we know of, it seems completely random."

Sam nods, shifting in his seat a bit, "Which probably means it isn't. Now, we've read that the bodies were mutilated, was anything...missing?" 

"Missing?"

"Yeah, any organs or bone not there that should be, that sort of thing?" The chief gives him a strange look, but he shakes his head,

"No, not that the coroner's found. The bodies are in tact, they've just been ripped to shreds." 

Dean and Sam exchange a glance before Dean looks to the chief,

"Can we have a look at them?"

"Sure, the morgue's down at the east end of the building; can't miss it."

"Thank you." Sam and Dean rise, setting off for the morgue, and Dean looks to Sam, "I donno, Sammy, this doesn't sound like our kind of gig."

"Let's take a look at the bodies anyway; something might turn up that the coroner missed." Dean nods his agreement, and they enter the morgue, using the case file the chief had given them to locate the victims, and they both make a bit of a face at the first body that had more wounds on it than visible skin, "Geez..."

"This doesn't look random; this guy was tortured - interrogated, probably, but by who and for what?" 

" I don't know.. but check this out." Sam points to a symbol that was carved into the vic's torso, "This looks like a summoning sigil." 

Dean's brows furrow as he looks the sigil over, moving to the next body to inspect it, "This one's got one too. Looks like your hunch was right; we're dealing with a witch. But why the hell are they torturing people?"

"I donno. We'll find out. For now, we need to hit the streets, ask around about anyone or anything strange, anyone who might've noticed anything... off." 

"You do that, I'm gonna start hitting the city's security feeds, see if I can't find where and when our sixth vic got nabbed." 

Sam nods, "Alright; meet up for lunch?"

"Sounds good." Dean exits the morgue to speak to the chief about the security footage while Sam borrows the Impala to case the areas the other five vics seemed to have been taken from.

 

Lunch as it turned out was closer to 'dinner' by the time they'd finished up, and Dean huffs a bit as he slides into the seat of the booth Sam was at with his laptop, 

"Anything?" He questions as he looks up from the screen,

"Bupkes. I almost got a good look at her, but the camera fritzed out. When it came back she was gone." He looks over when the waitress comes up, pausing so she could take their orders, and once she'd gone he looked back to Sam, "You?" 

"I'm looking into something now actually; the police missed a connection... course, I doubt they asked, really." He pauses when the waitress deposits their beers on the table, giving her a smile before he takes a drink and continues, "They're all part of the same coven." 

Dean half chokes on a swallow of beer, clearing his throat a bit before he looks at Sam, his brows raised, "The same coven. So, they're all witches?" 

"Yep, right now I'm looking through some files I pulled off of thumb drives their relatives gave me, trying to figure out if maybe the coven had made any enemies."

"Lovely, nothing like a little witch-on-witch action. Last time that happened I got my face attacked by a swarm of bees." He scowls when Sam snickers a little, 

"Yeah, well, good news is this time I'm pretty sure we can rule out marital discourse." 

"Thank God for small miracles. So nobody saw -anything?-" 

"Nope; although I can't help but wonder if maybe they did and didn't know that they did. I mean, witches aren't exactly weird looking. Could be they saw the witch and didn't even know it."

"Should ask around, see if anyone remembers any recent visitors they all had, see if there's not a link." His eyes light up a bit when their food arrives, digging in without much preamble, "Shud do 'at tuhmowwow mowning, shee wat cwops up." 

"Dude, don't talk with your mouth full."

"Why?"

"A, it's gross, and b, I can't understand a damn word you say."

Dean rolls his eyes and lets out a put-upon sigh, finishing his mouthful, "I said we should do that tomorrow morning, see what crops up." 

"That's what you said? Seriously? I thought you said something about mowing." 

"Yeah, Sam, let's go mow someone's yard for them while we investigate five witch-related murders. Fantastic." He shakes his head as Sam rolls his eyes, speaking again before he could fire off a comeback "I've got more surveillance I can look at after we eat. I may be able to find out what we need to know without us having to go door to door." 

"That works, I can see what I can dig up in these files."

"Hopefully between the two of us we'll figure out what the hell's going on without having to go door to door." replied Dean, finishing his food and his beer not long afterward, "See you back at the hotel?" He bitchfaces a little, Sam thoroughly absorbed in his reading, and he snaps his fingers between his face and the screen, making him jump a bit, 

"What?"

"See you back at the hotel?" 

"Oh, sorry, yeah - I'm gonna head there after I finish eating." Dean nods, taking the keys to the Impala from Sam, setting off for the police station. 

 

It wasn't until late in the night, after several hours of blankly staring at archived security footage, that Dean finally caught sight of an unfortunately familiar face, pausing the footage and rewinding it to make sure he actually saw who he thought he saw, and he groans, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger before he fishes his phone out of his pocket, calling Sam,

"Dean, you find something?"

"Yeah. You remember the demon whorehouse?" 

"With the demon that was killed via hex bag, right?" 

"That's the one."

"Yeah, what about it?"

"You remember the witch we chased? Redheaded Scotswoman?"

"Don't tell me."

"Yep. It's her. I just caught her outside of the first victim's house. Lucky they lived so close to the camera or I never would've seen her."

"Well, now we have the who at least. Now we just have to figure out where she is and why she's killing people."

"Yeah, I'm still combing the feeds to see if I can't catch her somewhere - great news is now that I've got a clear shot of her face we can use facial recognition to track her on the rest of the archived footage. You come up with anything?"

"Not much; most of these files are just recaps of various coven meetings and rituals, a few are spells. There's a few mentions of something called The Grand Coven, whatever that is, but I can't find any follow-up on that; we'll probably wanna check back at the bunker." 

"We can do that -after- we deal with Rowena. I'm gonna head over there and catch my four while the facial recognition runs."

"Alright, see you in a bit."

Dean hangs up the phone, making for the Impala, his senses on alert as he crossed the dark, mostly-deserted parking lot; most of the police working the graveyard shift were out on patrol, and there were only a few on hand at the station, leaving the lot all too empty for Dean's liking, yet at the same time the few vehicles that were there were an annoyance to him - they obstructed his field of view. 

He had just made it halfway to the car when he stopped dead, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end as his flight or fight response started to itch at the back of his mind. He was being watched... no, it was more than that; he was being hunted. He knew the feeling of having the gaze of a predator tracking him. It wasn't one he enjoyed, not in the least. His green gaze slowly surveyed the lot while his ears strained to hear something - anything - that might tip him off as to who or what it was.. but silence was all that fell upon his ears. He frowns, setting off again, moving more quickly now, though he had just passed in front of the car when a sudden, sharp pain lit up the side of his head, the impact upon it making his right ear ring; before he could get his bearings or strike back, he was struck again, and everything went dark.


	2. Abduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is newly human again, though still bearing the Mark of Cain. An old ghost from his past is resurrected by Rowena and turns him inside out. Will the rest of Team Free Will (I consider Crowley an honorary member) be able to save him before he's too far gone? Can anyone glue Dean back together again? Or will he be doomed to be the monster that he was in Hell? (Tags and characters/etc will be updated as the fic progresses; explicit rating is for later chapters and does not, as yet, apply.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \---------- notes a change in scene and focus from one character to another; I've found this differentiation makes it easier to digest and process :3 Also, if you're picturing/hearing Christopher Heyerdahl for this fic's Alastair, you're correct. He's by far my favorite incarnation of Alastair <3

Sam was pacing in the room a little, scrubbing his face with a hand after a moment before he tries Dean's cell again, nearly throwing his own across the room when it immediately went to voice mail as it had every time he'd called. It had been two hours since he'd heard from Dean, and he was officially worried - Dean not answering was one thing, but the fact it went straight to voice mail was a definite red flag. After a few calming breaths to get his head on straight, he went over to the laptop, trying to get a GPS location for Dean's phone, and his brows furrow when he finds it close to the police station. After a moment or two of thought, he pulled on his jacket and called a cab, telling the driver to take him to the station. 

Upon arriving, he followed the route on his cell's map to find the pinned coordinates of Dean's phone, though he only followed it part-way, his gaze falling upon the Impala from across the lot; cue red flag number two. He jogs over, finding Dean's phone on the ground in front of the car, the keys directly beside it, and he picks them both up, the damage to the screen of the phone confirming his concerns that Dean's disappearance had been anything but a willful detour. He rises from his squat, trying to calm the slowly growing sense of panic with a few controlled breaths, and he jogs to the police station, startling the officer at the front desk by proxy of his slamming the door open - half on accident, 

"Agent --"

"Does your parking lot have security cameras?"

"It has 24 hour surveillance, is something --"

"My partner's missing, I found his phone and car keys in front of his car. I need to see those feeds. Now."

 

\----------

Dean groans softly as he starts to come to, his head pounding and his sight blurry, trying to move only to discover he was quite thoroughly bound to a chair. The smell of blood was the first thing he registered, the sound of muffled crying immediately following. He blinks a few times, trying to clear his vision, and almost instantly regretting his success - he couldn't turn his head, but he could easily see a bound-and-gagged woman on a table some ten feet from him, her blood dripping slowly onto the ground; he couldn't see the extent of her injuries, but if the bodies he and Sam had found were any clue, they weren't pretty. He'd been about to speak to her when he heard a door behind him shut, his mouth immediately closing on reflex as footfalls approached, and he tensed slightly when a pair of hands settled on his shoulders, his eyes narrowing a little as he realized they were somehow familiar, though he couldn't place them. A heartbeat later the weight on his shoulders intensified as the owner of the hands bent forward, breath tickling his ear, 

"Hello, Dean." Spoke a low, honeyed male voice, every syllable just slightly drawn out; the response those two words elicited was both immediate and extreme, a cold stone dropping in Dean's stomach as he stiffened, a surge of fear and shock racing through his body, setting his heart pounding against his chest. No. No, he was dead. He was dead. He repeated to himself in his head, it had to be an hallucination, some sort of drug, or a product of his concussion. A soft chuckle sounded in his ear, Dean resisting the urge to cringe away, now, from the breath against his skin, "You don't seem very happy to see me; didn't you miss me, Dean..?" It took several seconds before Dean managed to speak, internally cursing how small his voice seemed, and its slight stammer, as it spoke a single word in response,

"Al-Alastair." 

"Mmmm, gooood, you -do- remember me. Here I was starting to worry, my boy." Alastair smiles, his eyes trained on every nuance of Dean's expression, thoroughly enjoying just how strong that fear response was. He knew it wasn't himself that Dean feared; oh no, he had no need to fear him, not really. It was that part of himself that Alastair had drawn out, honed, and perfected that terrified Dean so, and Alastair could smell on him just as strongly as he could taste his fear how close that part of him had leapt to the surface the second he'd heard his voice, "Miss me?"

"You're dead." Dean replies, a bit more steadily, now, in spite of the alternating waves of fear and responsive adrenaline coursing through his veins,

"I -was- dead." He corrects him, petting his cheek with the back of a finger, smirking when Dean jerks his head away as best he could, "But it seems even witches can have their use." His gaze drops to Dean's right arm, a slow smile crossing his features, "Well well well... so the rumors -are- true after all?" He runs his hand from Dean's shoulder and down his arm to cover the Mark of Cain with his hand, "The Mark of Cain..." His gaze flits back to Dean's face, "Of all the things I could have hoped for to perfect the work of art I molded you into, this would never have entered my wildest dreams... and yet, here it is. Quite a gift, my darling pupil; and it isn't even my birthday." 

Dean growls a little, trying to pull his arm free, the Mark burning in response to Alastair's touch, "Get off me!" He snaps, the burn and Alastair's words flipping his mental switch from fear to anger in a flash, "It's not a -gift- you son of a bitch."

"Oh but it is." He crooned in a near sing-song tone, drawing his tongue along his own bottom lip as he strokes the Mark with his thumb, well aware of Dean's discomfort thanks to his reaction, "Just think of it, Dean. Of how much fun we had, hmmm? How much you enjoyed the lessons you learned? How quickly you climbed the ranks; my golden boy, they called you. I still remember watching you work, how it was a thing of beauty to watch how artfully you tore those souls apart, how much you enjoyed it... and our time together afterwards..." He half-whispers, his lips close to his ear, brushing against it while he spoke, and he smiles a little as Dean struggles to free his arm from his grasp, "Think of all of that, with the power of the Mark behind you, taking care of those pesky little emotions that I knew lingered in the back of your mind, the guilt you felt, the pity, the remorse. Nothing but fun and no regrets to be had. If that's not a gift, I don't know what is."

"It's not!" He replies sharply, still vainly struggling to free himself, half out of anger toward the part of himself that was more than a little enticed by Alastair's words, his breathing a bit more rapid than his struggles alone could have accounted for, "It turned me into a fucking monster. If it hadn't been for Sammy and Cas I would still be that monster, and I'll be damned if I'm gonna let you turn me into one again." 

"Dean, Dean, Dean.... you already are." He points out, moving his hand from the Mark to the center of Dean's chest, feeling his heart hammering against his hand, "Can't you feel it?" He whispers into his ear, "That little part of you that smells the blood from that little bitch over there and starts chomping at the bit? That little part of you that's actually listening to me, that wants what I can give you? That -misses- me and the simplicity of Hell?" His lips quirk at the near-whine that caught in the back of Dean's throat, the sound one of near desperate denial, "Oooh, he's there, he always has been, hasn't he? -That's- the monster in you, Dean. The beautiful, bloodthirsty, savage beast that I unleashed in the Pit. The Mark has nothing to do with him, does it? Aside from feeding him." His head tilts, his hand moving from his chest to his mouth to keep him from interrupting him - he wasn't done, yet. "Tell me something, Dean..." He begins, his eyes drifting half closed as if in recollection of some pleasant memory of his own, "How hard is it for you, hm? To keep fighting against that brutal simplicity? To not give in to that base, sadistic pleasure of ripping someone to shreds just for the sheer joy of it..? How much do you miss that rush? Those -screams-, the taste of the blood, the smell of the fear and the pain until it consumes every one of your senses and makes it soooo eeeasy to just give yourself over to it... and to me... hm?" He finally uncovers his mouth as he finishes speaking, watching him expectantly, 

"Go fuck yourself, Alastair. You ain't gettin anything outta me. Those days are dead, gone and buried in the Pit and they ain't comin back." He replies, his tone somewhat annoyed as Alastair's expression became amused at his response, 

"No..? We'll just have to see about that, won't we..?"

\----------

Sam watched the feed again and again, changing views to try to get a look at the man who'd abducted his brother. Finally, he managed to glimpse his face; he wasn't familiar, but there was no mistaking the way his eyes went black in the video. The cop watching with him dismissed it as a glitch, which suited Sam just fine, and put out an APB on the demon's meatsuit. Sam left under the pretense of needing to contact their home office, picking up his phone once he'd gotten out of the building, staring at two names in his contacts list - Cas, and Crowley. He frowns as his thumb hovers between the two; Cas needed to be informed, that was a given, but Crowley would probably be the better guy to track down the demon, and subsequently, Dean. He sighs softly before tapping Crowley's name, putting the phone to his ear,

"Moose! Well, if this isn't a surprise. How's tricks?" Sam rolled his eyes; he could practically hear the smug smile on Crowley's face, 

"Not great. Look, as much as I hate to say it, Crowley, I need your help."

"You, the great Samantha Moose Winchester, needs -my- help? What a novel treat for me." Replied Crowley, his tone dripping with sarcasm, "Now for the million dollar question, sweet cheeks - why in the name of Rotten would I help you mooks with anything after how you've done me?"

"Do you honestly think I'd be calling you of all people if it wasn't important? Dean's in trouble, Crowley. He's been taken by a demon." 

"Doubt that's the first time -that- particular phrase has been uttered about him."

"What?"

Crowley rolls his eyes to himself with a smirk, "Never mind." He replies, the sound of ice rattling in his glass transmitting over the phone as he takes a drink of his Craig, "So Squirrel's been suddenly and secretly sequestered, and -you- want -my- help to get him back, that about the gist of it, Jolly Green?"

Sam shakes his head, trying not to let the demon's needling get under his skin, and he sighs, "Yeah, that sums it up. I got a look at the guy's meatsuit, but that's the most I have to offer."

"Oh, now I doubt that, darling - I've had more than a few good looks at you; you have quite a lot to offer." He replies, a grin spreading across his countenance as he speaks, only to broaden further at Sam's exasperated huff,

"Are you going to help me or not?" 

"That depends. What's in it for me?"

"Really?" 

"I'm a business man, Sam. All I've heard is what -you- need. Not what -I- get." 

"How about the ability to keep breathing?"

"You don't have the juice to kill me - though I do invite you to try. You, me, a dark alley, lots of testosterone, let events unfold how they may... could be fun, Moose. Might get out some of that, ah... frustration, that keeps you wound so tight." Crowley eyes the phone out of the corner of his eye with a little grin, wondering if his bit of a poke had struck a nerve.

Sam's cheeks pink a bit as his jaw tightens in annoyance, greeting Crowley's words with a stony silence, which only served to make the demon chuckle, 

"You know, some might take your silence for interest, Sam." He licks his lips a bit, taking another drink from his glass before he continues in response to the lingering silence, "Alright, send me a picture, I'll see what I can drum up, and we'll just say you owe me one, ey?" 

The thought of owing Crowley -anything- made Sam internally cringe, but he didn't have much of an alternative, and he scrubbed his face in a frustrated manner,

"Going once.... going twice...."

"Fine." Sam finally snaps, "I'll text you the picture." 

"Sounds dandy, darling; ta." Crowley grins as he hangs up the phone, waiting on the picture to be sent and lightly tapping the corner of his phone against his lips, his eyes glittering a little in the reflection of the fire in the fireplace before him. A Winchester I.O.U. He knew more than a few demons that would give body parts for that. So much to consider and so little time, but this everlasting game of Risk was one he was good at; that's how he became King, after all.


	3. Admission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is newly human again, though still bearing the Mark of Cain. An old ghost from his past is resurrected by Rowena and turns him inside out. Will the rest of Team Free Will (I consider Crowley an honorary member) be able to save him before he's too far gone? Can anyone glue Dean back together again? Or will he be doomed to be the monster that he was in Hell? (Tags and characters/etc will be updated as the fic progresses; explicit rating is for later chapters and does not, as yet, apply.)

A scream rent the air as Alastair slowly drew a knife down the torso of the woman on the table, the gag doing little to stifle the sound, and Dean grits his teeth as he struggles in his chair a bit,

"C'mon! What the hell did she even do, anyway?!" He snaps, finally breaking his long kept silence, and Alastair withdraws the blade, swirling the tip in the stream of blood that issued from the wound before he lifts it to his mouth, drawing the collected blood across his tongue before he looks to Dean, 

"Do? She didn't -do- anything, my boy." Replies Alastair with a small smile, "You see, the witch that was so kind as to bring me back, she needed information from this little whore, didn't she...?" He looks to her, his smile broadening a little at the wide-eyed fear with which she regarded him, and he runs a finger through the wound the blade had just carved in her flesh, producing another scream from her that trailed into a sob as he utilized his blood-soaked finger to draw little doodles on her skin, "And she got it, too." He adds, turning away from her to settle his gaze on Dean, strolling over to him, cupping the side of his face with his bloodied hand and tipping his head back painfully against the braces that held him otherwise quite still to force him to regard him as he squats down a bit so they were at eye level, ignoring Dean's pained grunts, "What I'm doing now? That's just for fun. You remember what fun is, don't you, Dean..?" He questions almost innocently, his head tilting fractionally to one side,

“I remember.” He half gasps the words out, the pressure on his neck from Alastair pushing his head back growing all the more painful with each passing moment, “I remember what -your- idea of fun is. But it ain't mine, you twisted son of a bitch.” Alastair chuckles, brushing his jaw with his thumb almost affectionately as he smiles at him, 

“Oh, but it is, Dean.” He finally lets go of his head, Dean panting a little in relief at the sudden abatement of pressure, “You may not remember – or should I say may not want to? – but it was every bit as much of your idea of fun as mine. How far down you've buried those memories... but not to worry. I'll be more than happy to dig them up for you.” 

“They don't need digging up. I remember -everything.- God knows I'd like to forget, but that ain't happenin.”

“Is it the guilt, then? Hmm? Is that what makes you oh-so-adamant in your denial? In your selective memory?”

“I don't have a selective memory. What part of 'I remember everything' didn't you get?”

“You may remember everything, but it's how you choose to remember it that's selective, my boy. You remember enjoying it, I know... but I think you deny just how much you liked it... I think you have to, or the guilt would eat you alive, especially when you think of what your dear old daddy would have to say about it.”

“You leave my dad out of this, douche bag.” Dean retorts, rather sharply at that, as he bristles, his jaw clenching,

“Ooooh, seems I've struck a nerve, haven't I? How much does that still tear you apart, Dean? That your daddy never came off of those racks until the gates of Hell were opened? That he was never so -weak- as to give in to the relief from the pain and turn that pain on others? That's what he'd call you, isn't it? Weak. Heartless.” He leans in to softly hiss the next word into his ear, “Mooonsterr.” Dean jerks, vainly attempting to headbutt him, but with as tightly as he was restrained, he did little more than slightly wiggle, 

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” 

Alastair laughs softly at the sudden surge of rage, watching it play across Dean's features and burn in his eyes, his eyes fixing on the visible pulse in his jaw as he gritted his teeth, “After all these years, that's still -such- a sensitive little nerve, isn't it, Dean? Well, then again, I suppose alcoholism and daddy issues are two of the most defining traits of your personality, aren't they? But what if I told you...” He draws back a bit to better look him in the eye, “That it wasn't -strength- that kept your dear daddy on that rack? That you showed more strength in your choice than he -ever- did in all the years he was strung up?” 

Dean narrows his eyes at him, his anger still surging through his veins, his heart pounding in his ears, “What the hell are you talking about?” He snarls the words, curious in spite of himself, and Alastair puts on a mock-surprised expression, 

“You mean you didn't know? Ohh, my dear boy... such an innocent thing still.” He smiles, petting his hair, his smile taking on an amused note at the way Dean still tried to jerk away from him – he never learned. “Your daddy didn't stay on that rack because he was too strong to come down. He stayed on that rack because he was too weak not to. Because of -everything- he did to you, to sweet little Sammy. Because he couldn't save your mother, because he couldn't change the fact that his precious Sammy was just as much a monster as anything he had ever hunted, and he knew, Dean, oh, how he knew. And he took it out on you, didn't he, Dean? Especially when he'd been drinking. Every single time you slipped up, every time you got out of line. Would've taken it out on Sam, too, if it wasn't for you, hm? Always putting yourself between them, always protecting your little baby brother. Suuuuch a martyr, Dean. Did you think he never felt guilt for what he'd done? For how he'd raised you both? For how he treated you? For your mother's death? Oh how he let that guilt -consume- him the second he got up on that rack. He never had the strength to let go, not like you, Dean. In that one moment that you stepped down, that you let go of your guilt, of your remorse, of your pain... you were a stronger man then than your daddy ever was. The Righteous Man. Mmm, that was always you, Dean. John was never a righteous man. He was a man consumed by vengeance, guilt, and self-pity.” 

Dean shakes his head as much as he can, “You're wrong. He did the best he could. He was training us, protecting us!”

“-Protecting- you? Is that what you call that, Dean?”

“You're damn right it is. He may not have been father of the year but he did what he could with what he got dealt. Sure, he was a drunk, and yeah I made the mistake of screwing up a few too many times---”

“Like when he abandoned you, Dean? Left you to -rot- in jail for trying to feed your brother?” Alastair smirks softly at Dean's somewhat stunned silence that greets his words, “You are a stronger man than your father ever could have -dreamed- of being...” He moves around to the back of the chair, starting to undo Dean's bonds, “And you know it, don't you, Dean? You can feel it.” He pulls Dean to his feet, shifting the bindings on his arms to pin them behind his back, and he half-guides, half-drags him to the table, a hand moving into his hair and gripping it harshly to force him to look at the carved form before him, “Look.” He murmurs near his ear, easily restraining him as he struggles, “Don't you feel it, Dean? Don't you want to just carve into her, like old times?”

Dean vehemently shakes his head, though he couldn't take his eyes off of the cuts and gashes that broke up the expanses of skin before him, feeling the Mark beginning to burn, his hands starting to shake a little, “No.” He replies shortly, Alastair smiling into his hair, the word sounding more like a plea than a denial, 

“I think you do, Dean... I can feel you shaking. Oooh, how much you want that high, don't you? The tear of the skin, the taste of the blood...” He smiles again as he feels Dean's struggles lessening, though his shaking had gone the other direction, intensifying a bit as he spoke, “You -crave- it, don't you? You don't have to lie to me, Dean... not like you do with them.” His voice drops to a whisper into his ear, “Tell me.” 

Dean shudders a little as he closes his eyes, trying to shut out the sight before him, barely registering Alastair's voice over the pounding in his head and his ears, his resolve crumbling as the demands of the Mark race through him like liquid fire, and he clenches his jaw as he opens his eyes, turning his head then to meet Alastair's gaze, “Yes.”


End file.
